Sibylline Leaves

Front matter

BY

S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

SIBYLLINE LEAVES:

Preface

PREFACE.

THE following collection has been entitled Sibylline Leaves, in allusion to the fragmentary and widely scattered state in which they have been long suffered to remain. It contains the whole of the author's poetical compositions, from 1793 to the present date, with the exception of a few works not yet finished, and those published in the first edition of his juvenile poems, over which he has no controul. They may be divided into three classes: First, A selection from the Poems added to the second and third editions, together with those originally published in the Lyrical Ballads, which after having remained many years out of print, have been omitted by Mr. Wordsworth in the recent collection of all his minor poems, and of course revert to the author. Second, Poems published at very different periods, in various obscure or perishable journals, &c. some with, some without the writer's consent; many imperfect, all incorrect. The third and last class is formed of Poems which have hitherto remained in manuscript. The whole is now presented to the reader collectively, with considerable additions and alterations, and as perfect as the author's judgment and powers could render them.

In my Literary Life, it has been mentioned that, with the exception of this preface, the Sibylline Leaves have been printed almost two years; and the necessity of troubling the reader with the list of errata, which follows this preface, alone induces me to refer again to the circumstance, at the risk of ungenial feelings, from the recollection of its worthless causes. A few corrections of later date have been added.—Henceforward the author must be occupied by studies of a very different kind.

Ite hinc, Camœnæ! Vos quoque ite, suaves, Dulces Camœnæ! Nam (fatebimur verum) Dulces fuistis!—Et tamen meas chartas Revisitote: sed pudenter et raro! Virgil. Catalect. vii.

At the request of the friends of my youth, who still remain my friends, and who were pleased with the wildness of the compositions, I have added two school-boy poems—with a song modernized with some additions from one of our elder poets. Surely, malice itself will scarcely attribute their insertion to any other motive, than the wish to keep alive the recollections from early life.—I scarcely knew what title I should prefix to the first. By imaginary Time, I meant the state of a school boy's mind when on his return to school he projects his being in his day dreams, and lives in his next holidays, six months hence: and this I contrasted with real Time.

Time, Real and Imaginary: An Allegory

TIME,

REAL AND IMAGINARY,

An Allegory.

On the wide level of a mountain's head, (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) Their pinions, ostrich-like for sails outspread, Two lovely children run an endless race, A sister and a brother! This far outstript the other; Yet ever runs she with reverted face, And looks and listens for the boy behind: For he, alas! is blind! O'er rough and smooth, with even step he pass'd, And knows not whether he be first or last.

The Raven

THE RAVEN.

A Christmas Tale, told by a School-boy to his little Brothers and Sisters.

Underneath a huge oak tree There was, of swine, a huge company, That grunted as they crunch'd the mast. For that was ripe, and fell full fast. Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high: One acorn they left, and no more might you spy. Next came a raven, that liked not such folly: He belonged, it was said, to the witch Melancholy! Blacker was he than blackest jet, Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet. He pick'd up the acorn and buried it strait By the side of a river both deep and great. Where then did the raven go? He went high and low, Over hill, over dale, did the black raven go.

Many autumns, many springs Travell'd he with wandering wings. Many summers, many winters— I can't tell half his adventures.

At length he came back, and with him a she, And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. They built them a nest in the topmost bough, And young ones they had, and were happy enow. But soon came a woodman, in leathern guise, His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes. He'd an ax in his hand, not a word he spoke, But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke, At length be brought down the poor raven's own oak. His young ones were kill'd: for they could not depart, And their mother did die of a broken heart.

The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever— And they floated it down on the course of the river.

They saw'd it in planks, and its bark they did strip, And with this tree and others they made a good ship. The ship, it was launch'd; but in sight of the land Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand. It bulg'd on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast: The old raven flew round and round, and caw'd to the blast.

He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls— See! see! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls! Right glad was the raven, and off he went fleet, And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet, And he thank'd him again and again for this treat: They had taken his all, and revenge was sweet! We must not think so; but forget and forgive, And what Heaven gives life to, we'll still let it live!

Mutual Passion

MUTUAL PASSION.

Altered and modernized from an old Poet.

I love, and he loves me again, Yet dare I not tell who: For if the nymphs should know my swain, I fear they'd love him too. Yet while my joy's unknown, Its rosy buds are but half-blown: What no one with me shares, seems scarce my own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad, They yet may envy me: But then if I grow jealous mad, And of them pitied be, 'Twould vex me worse than scorn! And yet it cannot be forborn, Unless my heart would like my thoughts be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair And fresh, and fragrant too; As after rain the summer air, And looks as lillies do, That are this morning blown! Yet, yet I doubt, he is not known, Yet, yet I fear to have him fully shewn.

But he hath eyes so large, and bright, Which none can see, and doubt That Love might thence his torches light Tho' Hate had put them out! But then to raise my fears, His voice2what maid so ever hears Will be my rival, tho' she have but ears.

I'll tell no more! yet I love him, And he loves me; yet so, That never one low wish did dim Our love's pure light, I know2 In each so free from blame, That both of us would gain new fame, If love's strong fears would let me tell his name!

Errata

ERRATA.

Page 15, erase the 2d stanza, A gust of wind. &c. 18, last line but one: for cloud read load. 35, l. 7: for The r. Brown. 57, l.13: r. (They) for (and.) 88, l. 1 and 4: r. incautum and veniam. 93, last but 1: r. good-natured. 96, l. 14: for betrayed in r. betrayed by. 98, l. 4: for four r. three. 108, l. 15: for were r. was this intolerance in. 119, l. 3: for Are all r. All are. 126, l. 16: for Slush r. Hush. 130, l. 15: for stream r. brook. 133, l. 6: for thy r. my; and instead of lines 14, 15, and 16, read as follows: How soon to re-unite! And see! they meet, Each in the other lost and found: and, see! Placeless, as spirits, one soft Water-sun Throbbing within them, Heart at once and Eye! With its soft neighbourhood of filmy Clouds, The Stains and Shadings of forgotten Tears, Dimness o'erswum with lustre!—Such the hour Of deep enjoyment, following Love's brief feuds! But hark! &c.—and for came r. come. 134, l. 4: for Beneath r. At. 138, l. 1: r. And to that covert by a silent stream. 2l. 2: for o'er r. near. 155, l. 8: omit the full stop after guest. 157, I. 13: for fear no sting r. ask no sting. 168, l. 9: for livery r. living. 2l. 15: for once more r. thou too. 176: from the 9th line r. as follows: O! the one Life, within us and abroad, Which meets all Motion, and becomes its soul, A Light in Sound, a sound-like power in Light, Rhythm in all Thought, and Joyance every where— Methinks, it should have been impossible Not to love all things in a world so fill'd, Where the breeze warbles and the mute still Air Is Music slumbering on its instrument! And thus, my Love! &c. 180: for the last line but four substitute Praise, praise it, O my soul! oft as thou scann'st. 187, l. 1: r. Idolo.

Page 189, l. 3: substitute Beauties and Feelings, such as would have been. 2 l. 6: substitute Friends whom I never more may meet again. 191, l. 10: for wild r. wide; and the two following lines thus: Less gross than bodily: and of such hues As veil the Almighty Spirit. 192, l. 21: omit the before Light. 195, l. 10: for guard r. guage. 207. l. 2: punctuate thus, reading Sound for sounds; And one low piping Sound more sweet than all— 211, l. 10: for fair day r. Fair-day. 2 l. 11: for sweet r. wild. 212, l. 2: for dead r. deep. 2 l. 3: for Fill'd r. Fill. 2 l. 5: for fills r. thrills. 213, l. 4: for traces r. Trances. 217, l. 12: r. psychological. 240, l. 15: r. Life, and Life's Effluence, Cloud at once and Shower. 242: in the Note for wind r. Storm-wind. 257, l. 8: for their r. thy. 2 l.14: read Ah! that once more I were a careless child! 269, l. 8: r. a mark of interrogation after self. 276. The metre of this ode, especially in the fifth line of each stanza, is written with a foreknowledge of the Tune, and must therefore be read as it would be sung. 282, for 8 and 9, substitute: The substance from its shadow. Infinite Love, Whose Latence is the plenitude of All, Thou with retracted Beams, and Self-eclipse Veiling revealest thy eternal Sun. 283, l. 20: for rebellions r. rebellious 287, l. 12: for mortal ministers r. human ministers. 298, l. 1: for blended with the clouds r. looming on the mist. 2 for 10 and 11 substitute: The power of Justice, like a name all Light, Shone from thy brow;

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, in seven parts

THE RIME

OF THE

ANCIENT MARINER.

IN SEVEN PARTS.

Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera? Quid agunt? quæ loca habitant? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit, Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in Tabulâ, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari: ne mens assuefecta hodierniæ vitæ minutiis se contrahat nimis, & tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed verltati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus.

T. Burnet: Archæol. Phil. p. 68.

IN SEVEN PARTS.

IT is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. "By thy long beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din."

He holds him with his skinny hand, "There was a ship," quoth he. "Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!" Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye— The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years child: The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed mariner.

The ship was cheer'd, the harbour clear'd, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top.

The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he; And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon— The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.

And now the storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast, The southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wonderous cold:

And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clift Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roar'd and howl'd, Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an Albatross: Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steer'd us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the Mariner's hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perch'd for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white Moon-shine.

"God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus!— Why look'st thou so?"—With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross!

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

PART THE SECOND.

The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariners' hollo!

And I had done an hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe: For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow stream'd off free: We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion, As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue and white.

And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so: Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought, Was wither'd at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choak'd with soot.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

PART THE THIRD.

There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye! When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky.

At first it seem'd a little speck, And then it seem'd a mist; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared: As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tack'd and veer'd.

With throat unslack'd, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail! a sail!

With throats unslacked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all.

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steddies with upright keel!

The western wave was all a-flame. The day was well nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) As if through a dungeon-grate he peer'd, With broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres!

Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a Death? and are there two? Is Death that woman's mate? HDTraill01 Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-Mair Life-in-death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice;

'The game is done! I've won! I've won!'

HDTraill02 The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out: At one stride comes the dark; With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listen'd and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seem'd to sip! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steerman's face by his lamp gleam'd white; From the sails the dew did drip— Till clombe above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogg'd Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, And curs'd me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly,— They fled to bliss or woe! And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow!

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

PART THE FOURTH.

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown."— Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! This body dropt not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea!

And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Liv'd on; and so did I.

I look'd upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I look'd upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay.

I look'd to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky Lay, like a , on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they: The look with which they look'd on me Had never pass'd away.

An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.

The moving Moon went up the sky, And no where did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside—

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware! Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware.

The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea.

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

PART THE FIFTH.

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Belov'd from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul.

The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I awoke, it rained.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank.

I moved, and could not feel my limbs: I was so light—almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind: It did not come anear; But with its sound it shook the sails, That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about; And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge; And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side:

Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan.

They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; Yet never a breeze up blew; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me.

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!" Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest:

For when it dawned—they dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seem'd to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the Heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid: and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean; But in a minute she 'gan stir, With a short uneasy motion— Backwards and forwards half her length, With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returned, I heard and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air.

"Is it he?" quoth one, "Is this the man? By him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low, The harmless Albatross.

The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow."

The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, "The man hath penance done, And penance more will do."

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

PART THE SIXTH.

first voice

But tell me, tell me! speak again,

Thy soft response renewing— What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the ocean doing?

second voice

Still as a slave before his lord,

The ocean hath no blast; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast—

If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him.

first voice

But why drives on that ship so fast,

Without or wave or wind?

second voice

The air is cut away before,

And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! Or we shall be belated: For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated."

I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather: 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high; The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen—

Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turn'd round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring—

It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— On me alone it blew.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed The light-house top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray— O let me be awake, my God! Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turned my eyes upon the deck— Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand: It was a heavenly sight! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light: